


Amouse Bouche

by doctorsaxon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Violence, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 09:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3523445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorsaxon/pseuds/doctorsaxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is a man who can't hold on forever.  [Cellar Door Collection]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amouse Bouche

**Author's Note:**

> Take me to CHURCH!! Please check the tags/warnings before reading. This is part of the Cellar Door Collection so it's going to be just as terrible as the others.

You’re foggy. How did you get here? Your head lolls to the side and it’s then that you realize you’re out of your usual sling and instead are stretched out on a table. No, the table. Hannibal’s almost ritualistic butchering table. You move to get up, but your wrists and ankles are firmly attached to the stainless steel construct. Bound. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling for you, and rather than panic you let your head loll back against the unforgiving hardness of the table and blink up at the blinding light overhead. Your body is sore, so the change of position is almost merciful if not for the nagging worry. Had Hannibal finally tired of you? That makes you feel sick for reasons that you didn’t entirely want to come to terms with.

You used to be so desperate for death.

And yet, death at his hands seemed such a fantastic way to die.

Hannibal isn’t in your line of sight, which is a bit odd. He never leaves his victims to their own devices long enough for them to wake up. You’ve built up a resistance to the drugs over the time you’ve been here, did he not factor correctly? You find this hard to believe. There’s an IV stand beside you already loaded with fluids of some sort, the bag unlabeled. There’s also a hefty bag of blood on it in a type you assume is yours. Another oddity. You strain to look and spot a cooler a distance away, which isn’t uncommon when he’s butchering but it doesn’t seem to be the same one he uses for that purpose. No, it very clearly has biohazard warnings stuck onto it. Curious.

The cellar door opens and you feel your pulse jump in anticipation.

“Ah, you’re awake,” his voice carries down the stairs to you before he has any right to know that or not. These little oddities about Hannibal Lecter have hardly phased you recently. He is more animal than man, a creature of rage and death and lust.

You look towards him so you can watch as he elegantly steps down the stairs and towards you, his doctor’s bag clutched tightly in hand. He offers you a kindly smile and you return it, gaze moving away from his bag and to his eyes. How warm, familiar, inviting. His fingers touch your cheek and you gasp softly, immediately leaning into his caress.

“How long have you been here, Will?” he asks, and you desperately rack your mind for an answer. You open your mouth to respond, but no words escape. You don’t know.

“Yes, I suppose you’ve completely lost your grasp of time, haven’t you?” he mumbles in an almost sympathetic tone. You nod mutely. He smiles again and your heart melts.

“Quite alright,” he soothes. Your eyes trail after him as he wanders to the IVs beside you and carefully goes through the motions of sticking you. One in your hand, one in your arm. He inspects the lines carefully for air bubbles and smiles in satisfaction. His eyes meet yours and you unconsciously arch towards him, craving him already. You don’t care what he’s going to do to you as long as he keeps looking at you, smiling at you, touching you. If he’s the last thing that you see, you couldn’t imagine a happier fate.

Hannibal chuckles darkly and grasps your chin. Your lips fall open obediently to accept his kiss.

A heavy thud shakes you out of your thoughts as he sets his doctor’s bag down on the small surgical table nearby, pulling out all variety of surgical tools. Scalpels, clamps, forceps of course, and you also notice a small tool you recognize as a bone cutter. Your vision swims. A marker. Iodine. The reality of the situation you’re in begins to sink in as Hannibal is preparing you, gently wiping down your torso with the iodine and marking a delicate Y across your chest and down your belly. The marker is cold and tickles your hot, fevered skin. You can feel the tears pooling in your eyes before you even realize you’re crying. Hannibal only spares your tears a fleeting glance.

He’s going to kill you. He’s tired of you. Your novelty has worn off and this will be your death bed, a sacrifice to a hungry god.

The steel glints harshly under the light and you go tense at the first touch against your skin. Hannibal shushes you gently and your body immediately reacts, muscles going lax as the cutting blade slides down into you. Skin pulls apart easily as the practiced surgeon follows his guide, slow and sweet. It surprises you how little this hurts, how the sting of the cut fades into the background and instead you watch in fascination as your own blood spills out and runs down your pale skin, over emaciated ribs and pooling finally on the table beneath you. The warmth is uncomfortable, and quickly cools and dries against your skin. Hannibal only wipes when necessary to see his handiwork, and soon enough your skin is cut neatly so you can be readily pulled apart.

You look up at Hannibal and he meets your gaze for a moment before delicately setting the scalpel aside in a glass of alcohol. Your breathing comes faster and shakily, every expansion of your lungs sending a fresh surge of pain through your body. Hannibal leisurely removes his coat, hanging it on the wall, and rolls up his sleeves. He’s not wearing his protective equipment, not even gloves. No, he wouldn’t, would he? This is personal. This is intimate. Above all, everything Hannibal Lecter has done with you has been intimate.

Fingers press at the longest cut down your sternum and you hiss at the sting. Hannibal offers no consolidation or mercy, fingers instead pushing into the cut entirely. This time you cry out, your head pressing back against the table in agony as those fingers probe and pry into your flesh. First one, then two, then three knuckles deep into your body. You’re crying. You turn your head to the side and heave, but Hannibal was careful to starve you before doing this. There’s nothing in your belly to regurgitate. Instead you spit up, and this is something that Hannibal is quick to wipe away. Your face is pulled forward again and you’re squinting through tears into the light. You can feel your own blood on your jaw where Hannibal’s fingers had just been.

The scalpel is taken up again so flesh can be cut from bone. You’re still crying, struggling weakly though your own instinct tells you that fighting the surgeon will only worsen your situation. You wonder how you could still be conscious. You wonder what’s in the bag beside you. You wonder when it’ll end. Hannibal had only just started and yet it seemed to be entirely too long. You remember your early days in captivity.

One filet of flesh is folded over and you scream, you cry and it’s only by some miracle that you haven’t bitten your tongue yet. Hannibal pauses this time, perhaps to make sure that you haven’t done just that, and replaces the scalpel in its sterilization bath. You’re panting between sobs, trying to keep air in your lungs. Hannibal reaches off somewhere behind him, you can’t focus that far, but when he comes back it’s with something distinctly red. Something that looks almost familiar? It’s only when he brings it closer that you recognize it for the staple gun it is.

“No, n-no, god, ple-” Hannibal ignores your cries, instead pressing the power tool against your bloody flesh and stapling it back out of his way. You scream and your vision blacks for a few seconds. A few, merciful seconds. And then you’re back, still in pain but still conscious. You can’t see through your tears, and Hannibal seems to take pity on you. A soft rag is at your face, wiping your tears away. When you see the state of your body it causes them to come rushing back again. You’re left open and exposed, and you can see the blood-streaked white of your ribs even as your own blood pools in your abdomen to cover your vitals as much as possible. Hannibal quickly takes care of that, siphoning away the excess blood so you can see your insides beautifully exposed to the air.

You marvel for a moment, your own pain ebbing out of your focus. You’re amazed.

And then Hannibal is pulling the other side back and your head snaps back again. It hits the table hard and your vision swims, dizzy at the impact and the pain of being slowly pulled open. You can faintly hear a voice over you, see Hannibal’s shadow against the blinding overhead light.

“You know, around half of a man’s small intestine can be removed without any major complications,” the voice said. The words didn’t really register, pain still arching through your body. “You would still retain full digestive capabilities.”

More siphoning, another deceptively gentle wipe of your eyes, and there’s the slide of a medical clamp being pulled off the table. Hannibal plunges into your body without hesitation, and you gag and sob on the foreign and monstrously painful feeling. More than the pain, the feeling of his hand in your guts is fantastically obscene. It’s disgusting. It’s strange. And Hannibal looks so predatory, so proud of himself as long strands of intestine are pulled into the light for you to see. Your face must betray your shock and awe, because the madman chuckles from his lofty position over you. He hums then, as if remembering something, and lets your hot gut pour down over your stomach as he wanders away.

The pain dulls in his absence, somehow, and you suppose it’s a learned response over your captivity.

“Adrenaline,” he says then, bringing over what seems to be a bedpan full of steaming water. It seems odd, and your brows knit together.

“In the IV bag,” he clarifies, a bloody hand stroking a wisp of hair out of your eyes and smearing more blood over your forehead in the process. He moves to said IV bag, changing it and placing another bag of blood up. That would explain your consciousness, then, not to mention that you’re still alive. That done, he does a quick once-over in what you assume to be him checking your vitals, then returns to his spot. What does it say about you that the care he was showing in those moments made your heart soar and you had almost forgotten why he was exercising it in the first place?

His hands are on you again, stretching the length of your intestine up into the air and carefully applying the first medical clamp. It feels odd, and you flinch for lack of a better reaction. You’re still crying, it still hurts, but it’s nowhere near the level you were at as he was pulling you into this position. Oddly.

Another clamp is placed, this one further up, and a pair of medical snips are retrieved. You realize with a start what his intentions are and there is no fear or disgust, only rapt fascination as he cuts. The pain is back, but you dare not take your eyes off of the display even as you scream and toss, even as blood pools out where it can get around the clamps and even as Hannibal takes a thin line of what looks to be fishing line and ties your open ends off to stop even that small amount of blood from pooling. He holds up what appears to be a foot long strip of intestine, a length you know to be far less than half. He licks his lips with a hunger you’ve only seen in those early days when you hated him, when you fought him and screamed bloody murder at every touch. He quickly washes off his strip, scowling a bit as he removes every trace of waste and fatty membrane. He snips off a bit and meets your gaze meaningfully as he drops it onto his tongue. It disappears into his mouth and you sob helplessly as he chews and swallows, straining towards him rather than away.

“What, did you want some?” he teases, cutting another thin strip and dangling it tauntingly over your mouth. You’re disgusted, you should be disgusted, but between your nagging hunger from days without food and your own warped mentality, you open your mouth. Hannibal laughs, outright laughs, and you feel the soft piece fall into your awaiting mouth. You chew hesitantly, shaking, and can’t help the way you groan at the sweetly familiar taste. Like fresh lamb, fattier and richer but with the definite taste under the raw meat bite. You swallow and wonder belatedly where the bite has to go.

Hannibal is apparently content with saving the rest of the treat for later, instead moving to stand beside your face. He grabs your chin.

“Now for your beverage,” he grinds out in a familiar tone. Obediently, second-naturedly, you open your mouth and gasp at the sound of a zip being undone. Hannibal is hard, harder than he has been in your recent memory, and you’re helpless to stop even if you wanted to when he pushes that massive prick between your lips. You initially gag as he pushes impatiently down your throat, but soon fall into the same practiced rhythm of sucking and laving his cock with your tongue in long, loving strokes. This isn’t a blowjob as much as him fucking your throat, taking what he wants from your body in more ways than one.

You look up at him, eyes foggy. You take in the look on his face, the blood splattered over him. He looks like a beast. He looks like power. Your eyelids flutter.

He doesn’t get off then, pulling out of your mouth with a pop and you whine at the loss. He’s between your legs then, and his hands are inside you as he shoves into your unprepared asshole. You sob out at the pain, of the stretch and of his hands in your guts again. He now has two ends to play with, it seems, and he greedily pulls your inside out. You can feel them fall against your body, you watch through tears as he runs his fingers over them with the fascination of a child. He’s fucking mercilessly and for a moment, those wild eyes aren’t human. They’re dark and hollow and boring into your soul and that manic grin is out of place and monstrous and he’s your nightmares. Empty pits for eyes and sharp shark’s teeth in a wild grin. Your eyes are wide in terror as he pulls more and more out of you, frantic now in his actions. Intestines and chunks of meat are torn from your body. Rib bones are cracked. Your false rib is quickly removed and you watch as he lifts it to his lips to suck the marrow from it.

Your vision darkens at the edges, you can feel the warmth of blood trickling from the corner of your mouth.

The monster’s gaze meet your eyes.

You smile back as you feel waves and waves of cum flooding your body.

Your body goes lax against the table.


End file.
